An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  For some reason, a shiver ran down my neck. ‘Yes. White flannel. And a shirt of saffron gold, just like yours.’

  ‘Will it be ready by tomorrow?’

  I nodded, feeling queasy. ‘Cabrera said so. He told me it would be delivered in the morning, with a note inside about the rendezvous. I’m to send information back with the delivery boy.’ I swallowed. ‘They will be watching the house.’

  ‘Good,’ Langham said. He looked away and stood up and I was left feeling cold, as if someone had closed the door of a stove. ‘Bouzid,’ he said, ‘come with me. We have a lot to do.’

  Despite the heat of the day and the brandy I had drunk, I could not stop shivering. Langham and Bouzid left Dar Portuna by the secret back gate, where to I didn’t know. Hilde and I did what we could to distract ourselves, decorating the lounge for a party that none of us wanted. We arranged glasses and chose platters. Once or twice we tried to talk of what had happened, what was to come, only to find we couldn’t; the words turned to ash in our mouths. Finally, we parted, Hilde to her pipe, I to the privacy of Langham’s bathroom.

  In the shower, I tried to sluice away the fear and anxiety, wincing at the sting of water on the back of my head. I tried to forget that there was a world outside the house. I wanted to sever Dar Portuna from Tangiers, wanted to untie all of the strings that tethered us to the past and send us drifting away into the world, untouchable.

  Later, wrapped in Langham’s robe, I sat on the tiny roof terrace above the bedrooms, trying to catch a breeze off the strait. It was like a nest up there, the highest spot in the house, from which I could see everything. The edge of the casbah and beams of motorcars on the beach road, the ships on the strait, the vastness of a continent behind me of which I still knew nothing. I stared into the darkness, trying to imagine what life lay ahead for me, tomorrow, next week. I found that I couldn’t.

  ‘Here you are.’ It was Langham, emerging from the stairs. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  He came and stood behind me, his arms encircling my chest, careful not to touch my bruised head.

  ‘I don’t even know your name.’ I murmured it to the night. I wasn’t sure where the words came from, only that they were truth.

  For a moment, he stiffened. Then, I felt him relax, leaning closer. ‘I could say the same for you,’ he whispered. ‘Why don’t you choose us another one?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’ His breath was warm on my cheek. ‘If it happens that I have to leave Tangiers, would you go with me?’

  Leave Tangiers, Dar Portuna? ‘And go where?’

  ‘Anywhere. Argentina, Shanghai. The other side of the world, where no one knows us.’

  Those places, I knew them from Ifrahim’s stories, but they’d always seemed like a fantasy; impossible to reach for someone like me.

  ‘You mean travel together?’ I leaned my head against his, closing my eyes. I could see us now, two gentlemen standing at the railing of a ship, smoking and laughing, playing cards with ladies in cocktail lounges, idly reading newspapers over breakfast, sharing a cabin, where we could shed our disguises and be together, breath and skin, upon a vast ocean.

  ‘Of course together.’ His lips touched the side of my head. ‘With you as my wife—’

  I opened my eyes, as if someone had stuck me with a pin.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Yes. They will be looking for us, after all, for Langham and del Potro. But as a gentleman and a lady we could slip past. Mr and Mrs Porter, of Gibraltar, maybe. You could borrow a few of Hilde’s dresses, perhaps a wig, until your hair grows out.’ He ran his hand through my short curls and I jerked away, my guts knotting.

  He frowned. ‘What is it?’

  He reached for me again, but I shrugged out of his grip. I couldn’t explain it. Langham’s wife … to be with him, openly, in public. Wasn’t that what I wanted?

  ‘No,’ I told him shakily. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Ale, as my wife, you’d have protection.’

  I turned to face him. ‘I don’t want to be protected, to need protection. I don’t want to be a wife.’ I searched for his eyes in the darkness. ‘I want what you have. I want to be like you, to be free.’

  There was silence between us for a long time. I couldn’t see his face clearly, only the outline of his features. Then, his chest jerked and I saw a glint on his skin. It was a tear, I realized.

  ‘To be like me,’ he said, his voice soft with dismay. ‘No, Ale, I couldn’t wish that on you.’

  I pulled him into my arms. His tears were warm and slick as lamp oil on my cheek as I kissed him, feeling my own eyes sting. We clung to each other, there on that rooftop, like two people about to fall from the edge of the world.

  Tangier

  July 1978

  Sam stood motionless, one arm around Zahrah. She was fighting not to cry; he could feel the hitch of tears in her chest, barely contained.

  Gone.

  ‘What happened? Tell me.’

  She looked up at him, and for a moment there was such recrimination in her face he thought he wouldn’t be able to stand it.

  ‘We waited for you,’ she sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘Last night, we waited up but you didn’t come. In the end, Ale sent me out to get the evening papers … You promised,’ she said fiercely, stepping away from him. ‘You promised you’d stop it.’

  ‘I tried!’ He was too ashamed to meet her gaze. ‘I went to Norton’s office, I got Ale’s old passport back, I tried to make him leave the story alone, but …’ His voice trailed off and he gave a dull laugh. ‘I spent the night in jail. That’s why I didn’t come.’

  ‘In jail?’ Zahrah looked alarmed. ‘Why?’

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘I got into a fight, with Norton.’ It sounded so ridiculous. ‘Everything would’ve been fine, but the police found the passport and decided they didn’t know what to do with me. So they threw me in the lock-up. I’d probably still be there if my friend Bet hadn’t bailed me out.’ After a moment’s silence, he looked up at her. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Zahrah, tell me what’s happened to Ale.’

  Her shoulders dropped. ‘Last night, we read that article of Norton’s,’ she said, sitting wearily on the edge of the bed. ‘Ale saw the bit about Langham, and Dar Portuna, and the authorities, and didn’t say a word, just locked the door of the study and didn’t come out all night.’ Zahrah was worrying her hands, red with nail marks. ‘This morning, early, Ale came to the kitchen and asked me to go and buy the morning papers. Neither of us had slept, I could tell.’ She swallowed a sort of laugh. ‘It was just an excuse to get me out of the house … By the time I got back, everything was quiet. There was no sign of Ale. Nothing except for this.’

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick envelope. There was writing on the front, addressed to him. He took it.

  Dear Sam,

  Don’t blame yourself. Some stories are beyond our control.

  A

  ‘But – this doesn’t mean anything,’ he said, gripping the envelope. ‘Ale could have just … left town for a while, or something, until this blows over. You don’t know for certain that it’s for ever.’

  He looked across at Zahrah. This time, there was no anger in her face, only sadness as she shook her head.

  ‘There was a letter for me too.’ She took a second envelope from the bag and held it in her lap. It was thick, containing many more pages than the one left for Sam. He caught a glimpse of writing on the front, the words Dearest Zahrah.

  ‘There’s a will inside,’ she said softly. ‘Ale has left me everything. Including Dar Portuna.’

  ‘Is there anywhere else Ale could have gone?’ Sam asked desperately. ‘A hotel, another house, friends?’ His voice ran out. Zahrah was shaking her head.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No one would leave a will unless they meant it. Unless they never intended to come back.’ She looked across at him. ‘In the letter Ale said I should come and find you right aw
ay, that we should read what’s in there together.’ She nodded at the envelope in Sam’s hands, the one addressed to him.

  He couldn’t believe it. Dazedly, he turned over the envelope and broke its seal. Inside were ten written pages, all in the same restless, dashing hand. He leafed through them, before turning back to the beginning, looking for a note, an explanation, anything.

  ‘“Shanghai”,’ he read, and glanced down the page. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Keep reading.’ Zahrah leaned closer to see the letter, her arm brushing against his.

  He blinked hard, and cleared his throat.

  Shanghai

  Take two dashes of imported grenadine, one and a half tablespoons of lemon juice, half a tablespoon of anisette and a pony of Jamaica rum. Shake well, strain into a cocktail glass, and drink to what’s behind you.

  The day before the party passed like a speeding automobile; even as I tried to seize on details, they were whisked away, leaving me with streaming eyes. The details I do recall are scattered. The smell of coffee in the kitchen, the quiet breakfast Hilde and Langham and I took together in the garden, my aching head, the purple bruise around the wrist of the tailor’s son, who would not meet my eyes. The beautiful new suit hiding a message from Cabrera and a forged telegram from ‘Colonel Mayer’, an old associate of Langham’s, begging his presence at an urgent meeting that night. I showed it to him in the safety of his study, and he had studied it hard, before burning it up in his ashtray, his hand on my shoulder.

  Langham did not mention marriage again, though during the night he had asked me once more to go away with him. His manner all that day was odd, sometimes distant and formal, at other times fraught, passionate. He would send me away with an order, only to catch me and pull me to him in the shadow of the door. Finally, I agreed to accompany him, on the condition that it was not as a woman, not as his wife. He seemed so relieved, and held me, whispering about what we would do, how we would lay low in some quiet port town, drinking and listening to the wireless, until Hilde sent us the all-clear. I felt a rush of exhilaration at the knowledge I held some power over him: that he wanted me so.

  Even so, I was far from easy. Why can’t I trust you? he’d whispered to me, that first night in the bathroom. And though it pained me to the pit of my stomach, I found myself thinking the same.

  For one thing, the party itself was a masterpiece of cunning. Langham understood how to manipulate people with food, too, I realized, how drinks could be used to charm people, to undo them, to make them malleable. I wondered whether that was what he saw in me, my first night at Dar Portuna.

  Between us, we plotted every detail, as if planning an assault. The food was to be light, nothing to soak up the forceful cocktails we planned to serve. Ajoblanco, I suggested, oysters on ice, blanched almonds rolled in salt to make people thirsty and drink more, crystallized rose petals, raspberry jellies laced with liquor, for those who tried to be abstemious. Mahjoun, too, a mountain of it, made with a block of hash the size of a small melon.

  ‘Good,’ Langham murmured, watching me roll the balls of it in powdered sugar, to fool people with its sweetness, to compel them to eat more than they should. ‘Make sure this goes around all evening.’ He picked up a piece, only to put it back on the tray. ‘Be generous with the spirit measures, too.’

  I nodded, though my throat was tight, stuck with floating sugar. If it all went to plan, the guests would be reeling, roaring drunk or lost in a haze of hash and smoke, and no one would be able to remember a single reliable thing.

  ‘It’s time,’ Langham murmured to me, when the hall clock struck seven. ‘Go and pack, then come upstairs.’ He ran a hand through my hair, careful of my bruised skull. ‘I want us to dress together.’

  I was shaking as I closed the door to my room, that modest, little space that meant so much to me. Waiting on the bed was a suitcase of Langham’s; pale, buttery leather, embossed with his initials. A. L. It gave me pause. For all its beauty, I didn’t like the idea of placing my belongings into a case emblazoned with his name.

  It’s just a bag, I told myself, what difference does it make?

  Rapidly, I packed cologne and pomade, put on a robe so I could pack my fawn-brown jacket and trousers, my fine underwear and socks, and The Gentleman’s Guide, my first gift from Langham. The new, white flannel suit was waiting on its hanger. It was beautiful. Despite – or perhaps because of – Cabrera’s intervention, Souissa had outdone himself. And yet, there was something unsettling about it. It was white as bones are white, bleached by the sun. Clean as flesh when drained of blood. It had no place in a kitchen, and part of me felt uneasy about wearing it.

  Soon, Bouzid was knocking on the door. He looked wonderful, wearing a magnificent brocade djellaba. When I looked down, however, I noticed a glimpse of plain, dark trousers protruding from the hem.

  ‘You are finished?’ he asked, pointing to the suitcase. I assumed he was going to hide our bags somewhere, the car perhaps, so that it would not seem suspicious.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, retrieving the precious passport and sliding it into a side pocket. ‘But I don’t have the key.’

  Bouzid came forwards and closed the lid, picked up the case. ‘Mr Langham has the key. He will lock it now. Shall I take your suit up to the dressing room, too?’

  He had unhooked the suit before I could answer. Why did it make me so anxious, to see my possessions being borne away?

  ‘Bouzid!’ I called. He turned around. I wanted to ask how long it would be before I saw him again after tonight, what he would do while Langham and I were away, but I couldn’t.

  His face flickered. ‘He is waiting for you,’ he said.

  I met Hilde coming out of Langham’s room. She was carrying a curling iron.

  ‘He’s done,’ she said, and tried to smile. ‘You should have heard him fussing over his hair. Vain as a debutante.’

  For a long moment we just looked at each other. Then, we stepped forwards and held each other tight.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘I’ve never seen him like this before. What if …’ She pulled back. ‘What if it goes wrong? I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘It will be fine.’ I told her what we both wanted to believe. ‘You’ll see. We’ll be back in a month or two, maybe sooner if things have calmed down.’

  ‘And what if they don’t?’ She was too clever for my placating words. ‘What if you can’t come back?’

  ‘Then we’ll send for you,’ I said, putting my hand to her cheek. ‘We’ll send word and you can lock up the house and join us, and we’ll sun ourselves on a yacht in Algeria, or take tea in Ceylon.’

  She tried to laugh, but it was more of a ragged breath. ‘You sound like him,’ she said. As I stepped away, she held on to my sleeve. ‘Please, Alejandro,’ she whispered.

  Langham stood at the window of his room, looking out. Beyond him, the water of the strait was pearl violet with evening. I stared at the back of his head, wanting to fix it in my mind like a painting, a moment I could always return to.

  When he turned, and met my eyes, I knew he was thinking the same.

  ‘Well?’ he said, raising his hands towards his hair. ‘I think it is ridiculous, but Hilde says it will serve.’

  Earlier that day, he had washed his hair with dye to darken it, and now, curled by Hilde, it looked almost like my own. He’d darkened his eyes too, with a smudge of kohl, shaded his cheekbones to make them more like mine. It changed his face, made it seem less formal, less English. Looking at him, I managed a smile. Was that how he saw me?

  ‘What will your guests say?’ I asked, touching his cheek. ‘Won’t they think it strange?’

  ‘Strange?’ He snorted. ‘Everyone is strange in this city.’ He smiled a little. ‘If anyone asks, I shall tell them it is part of our party theme. A good, white English suit, hiding a red-blooded Andalucían.’ He reached out, and slid the robe from my shoulder. ‘Shall we?’ he murmured.

  Article by article, we dressed
. I smoothed silk underwear over his hips, he pulled the brassiere down over my head and laced it tight. Face to face, we fastened each other’s shirts, finding excuses to touch, to linger. When it came to the trousers, I thought we should never manage to dress each other, but eventually, we did, settling the white flannel creases in place. Jackets, ties; his fingers took their time straightening my collar, brushing against my neck. Finally, I sat before the mirror and he dressed my hair, his face serious with concentration. When he’d finished, he let the comb fall to the table, and sat down beside me.

  We were reflected, shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek. The same suits, the same hair, the same sober, watchful expression. The same man, almost. Enough to fool a casual glance.

  ‘You said you wanted to be like me,’ he whispered into the glass.

  Eventually, he stood up. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘the final touch, for later.’ From the bottom of the wardrobe, he took two hatboxes. Inside each was a hat, two identical straw boaters, each with a wide red ribbon. ‘It should be your size,’ he said, and placed it on my head.

  At any other time, Hilde would have clapped and laughed to see us walking down the stairs, hand in hand, the spitting image of each other. As it was, she only watched us solemnly, as if we were descending into the trenches.

  ‘This is it, then?’ she asked, as she fixed a hibiscus flower into each of our lapels. She too was wearing white. Her eyes looked heavy with make-up, and from whatever she had taken, for courage.

  Langham squeezed my shoulder once, and let go. ‘This is it,’ he said, and nodded to Bouzid, who threw open the front doors.

  Soon, the house began to rattle with laughter and music and the boisterousness of those who were the first to arrive. I stood behind the bar, my outfit hidden by a long white server’s jacket and apron. The drinks I made were strong and cold and perfect for throats parched with road dust. I watched as they were thrown back, one after another.